“Master, they know me now! If I am seen, I will be taken.”
“And will talk,” Ignatieff said contemptuously. “No, you will not be seen. You have some skill at disguise; and you know names; and our enemies will not announce your treason, lest it alert others. You will keep watch for us—and others will watch you. Do not fear. You will not be taken alive. If you manage to kill King, or recover the Dreamer, you will even be forgiven—richly rewarded, and given a new identity.”
He gave further instruction, and at last the Angrezi stumbled away. The others watched Ignatieff with new respect; the humiliation of one of the sahib-log pleased them greatly.
“We also will watch,” he said to them. “We may yet find the ones we seek; and if we find and slay, all will yet be well.”
The babu spoke: “Will they not inform the higher authorities, who will change all things, if a hint of our plans has reached them?”
“No,” Ignatieff said. “Their laws and customs will bind them. The fire carried away all evidence at that one’s house. And they do not know which of their men are ours. We would put a thousand to the torture and find the tracks of our enemies; they will march to the slaughter like sheep—if we are careful.”
The sun was paling on the eastern horizon, red and swollen with the city smoke of Delhi, before they were finished.
“You’re about recovered, bhai,” King said, stepping back and letting the point of the practice saber fall a little.
The small courtyard of the house Elias had found them made a splendid practice ground; the fountain and planters and the archways about it kept it from being too unrealistically smooth and open. Duels and fencing matches were all very well, but a real fighting man had to be aware of his surroundings every moment—unless you were, then a trip, a bump, a flash of light off a bit of glass, an enemy’s friend coming up behind you, could all mean death. And he’d never heard of a battle or skirmish where the opposing sides stopped to rake and roll the field beforehand.
“Of course, you always were rather slow,” he went on, with a taunting grin.
Narayan Singh gave a roar and lunged again. King beat it aside from the wrist and backed a little, laughing to himself despite the sweat that ran down his body in rivers beneath the training armor—a leather coat with metal bosses riveted to the outside, padding beneath, a helmet with a gridwork of bars over the face. The tulwars had no edge or point, but they were regulation weight, and a blow with his or the Sikh’s arm behind it was no joke. His breath came deep and quick but controlled, and it was a familiar pleasure to push himself to the limits of capacity.
The swords rang off each other again and again as their booted feet rasped and scuffed over the tile, thrust and cut and parry blurring them into silver arcs, breath coming deep and hard. Then the steel met again with a slithering rasp, and the long blades locked at the guard. King caught the Sikh’s left arm at the wrist and they strained against each other for a moment; then he tried a risky hip throw, switching stance and twisting. Narayan went down on his back and cut at King’s legs; the Lancer officer skipped nimbly over the blade and leapt in to thrust at his body. A hamlike hand grabbed his ankle and pulled; King went down on his backside in turn.
“You wouldn’t have tried that with real blades,” King complained, as they rose and stripped off the practice gear. “I’d have had your hand off at the wrist.”
“Not before I turned thee into a kebab,” Narayan Singh said cheerfully.
When the Sikh had stripped to the waist he thrust his head and shoulders into the basin of the fountain and laved water over himself with both hands. He was blowing like a grampus, his hairy torso covered with sweat—and the multicolored, fading mark of bruises. King followed suit, grunting relief at the feel of the cool clean water, and they sluiced down their torsos—for the rest they were wearing soft boots and loose pjamy-trousers of undyed cotton. The Sikh wrung water out of the blue-black mane of beard and hair his faith required, tying a rough topknot, and then spread his arms in the challenge-gesture of a Punjabi wrestler.
“Two falls of three, sahib?”
King shook his head, picking up a towel from across the back of a bench and tossing another to his follower.
“Not today. I beat you two matches in three with the sword—you will beat me two in three when we wrestle. We’ve had exercise enough. Why waste the effort to prove it again?”
Narayan nodded, suddenly serious. “It’s hard to learn when we spar; we grow too used to each other’s tricks.”
King smiled. “I think our enemies will give us enough variety, and soon,” he said. He slapped the Sikh on the shoulder. “We leave tomorrow—best give the gear another check. I must talk with Elias and Sir Manfred again.”
“Han, huzoor. It will be good when this matter is settled and we can return to real soldiering. The Second Squadron will grow slack, without us to drive them. Rissaldar Mukdun Das is too soft on them.”
I wish I had his self-confidence, King thought as the Sikh picked up the practice gear and trotted off. Or, on the other hand, maybe it’s just that he’s as good an actor as I am.
Yasmini watched from the shadow of a pillar as the Angrezi officer stood in the mild winter sun, water making rivulets down his body as he toweled himself. He was big without being bulky—the Sikh had looked like a great hairy bear beside him—with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, deep chest, long legs, long arms, and the enlarged wrists of a swordsman. His skin was smooth save for a few scars and a light thatch of hair across the arch of his chest; muscles swelled and slid under wet skin the color of oiled beechwood as he moved, each clearly defined, like living shapes of metal.
She was close enough that she could even smell him a little, a clean masculine scent unlike the all-too-familiar wolf musk with a hint of blood taint of the Master. His face had an intriguing narrow cast, and it was strong without cruelty; the face of a man who could kill without passion or regret when it was necessary, but who would be safer than a mother to all save his enemies.
Altogether it was a fine sight.
The more so as I can look at a man without fear of punishment, now, she thought, with a feeling of guilty pleasure.
She cleared her throat, hoping to make him jump— she had learned early in her life to creep and steal about the House of the Fallen like a mouse through the wainscoting, with a whipping and a day and night locked in the Black Box for punishment if caught. She knew she was stealthy even by the high standards of the Okhrana schools, where the punishments were far worse, but he was not startled. Instead he lifted his face from the towel and smiled at her.
“That’s all right, miss,” he said, giving her the title of respect he would have a woman of his own people and class.
Such a pleasant change from slave and bitch, she thought.
He went on: “I knew you were there, but thought you might not want to be seen, as it were.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I have seen you so often in dreams, you see. In person, it is a little different.”
That startled him, though he hid it well for an Angrezi. It did not frighten him, she thought: But it puzzled, and left him a little off-balance. He nodded—good that he knew when it was better to keep silence—and dressed, pulling on the loose round-collared shirt, then the high-necked jacket that lapped over from left to right and was secured by a tie-off near the shoulder and a sash about the waist. His sword belt went over that, cinched tight, and he settled it comfortably with a slight movement of the hips and hands wholly automatic.
A fine figure of a man, and the more so because he knows it—but dwells on it only a little, she thought, before saying:
“The others wish to discuss the departure with you. They do not like my idea, although Gospodin Elias acknowledges it has merit.”
“Idea?” King said.
“About the burqua,” she said, and grinned at him—not an expression he had seen on her before, but then, there had been few occasions for it.
“It’
s a good disguise,” he said, nodding. “Never approved of the damned things, myself, but they’re convenient.”
“No, not for me—that is, yes, I will wear one. But that is not enough. The watchers will look for one woman, you see, however she is dressed; and I cannot pass for a man in disguise, because I am too small, and my face too different. So there should be two women in the burqua; myself as a young noblewoman, and Sir Manfred as my cheti—my handmaiden—he being the only other one of us of suitable height and build. Or my ayah, if I were to pose as a child.”
King stared at her for a moment, then delighted her with a roar of laughter. “Oh, ripping!” he said at last, wheezing a little. “Shabash, Yasmini! And Sir Manfred didn’t like the idea?”
“No,” Yasmini said demurely, dropping her eyes a little. “And when I said that if that was not to his taste, he could be my mother instead . . . somehow that did not please him either.”
“By the ten thousand faces of God, I’ll give you odds it didn’t!” King said, still chuckling. “Am I mistaken, or do you dislike Sir Manfred the least little bit?”
Yasmini hesitated, then decided on the truth. “I should not, perhaps. It is unjust; he is not like the Master, and has never treated me badly. But he does look at me like a tool, a thing to be used for a purpose, and that is like the Master. That is why I left the Master, because I wished to be my own, and use myself for my purposes.”
He paused, nodded slowly, and held out his left arm, bent in a crook. “I must confess an occasional irritation with Sir Manfred myself. Shall we, then?”
She looked at him in puzzlement, then remembered the Angrezi custom and slid her small hand through his elbow.
“Perhaps if he could be my elder sister?” she murmured, as they moved off—he shortening his stride to make it easier for her, and joining his deep laugh to her silvery one.
“Perhaps we should revive the waltz more often,” Prince Charles said, leading her off the floor.
“Perhaps we should,” Cassandra King replied, snapping open her fan and fluttering it.
His mouth gave a small quirk at that; he knew full well that she had received all a gentlewoman’s training in the social graces at home and school, mastered them well, and gratefully dropped them down an oubliette when she became an Oxford scientist and—since she was also a woman, and young—by definition a hopeless eccentric and prospective spinster.
Or unnatural bitch to a good many faculty wives, she thought. But not having to spend half my time remembering social sign language and ritual is a compensation.
The ball was theoretically in honor of Henri de Vascogne; the nature of his mission was quasi-public knowledge now; the antique waltzes were in his honor as well, since that style of public entertainment had never fallen out of favor in France-outre-mer. The ballroom was designed for it, in any case; usually for the annual revival on Victoria Day—honoring the first sovereign of that name, not the second, whose idea of a jolly evening had been much less proper. Accordingly, the room was in the classic Old Empire style, strange to modern eyes—nothing but a little carved plaster on the ceiling, the stretches of wall between the gilt-framed mirrors in a plain red wallpaper, and chandeliers of clear translucent crystal drops above. The orchestra was tuning up for the next dance on a dais in one corner, and there were chairs all around the walls elsewhere except for the outer wall, where tall glass doors gave on a broad terrace. Even the scents were old-fashioned, less complex than the patchouli-musk-sandalwood-jasmine-rosewater of contemporary perfumes.
“I think I’d rather watch this one,” Cassandra said. Of course, there are limits. None of the women are wearing corsets or bustles. In fact, most were in the same sort of shalwar qamiz outfit that she was herself, long tunic and trousers; it was more practical, for dancing.
Charles nodded, snagging two glasses off the tray of a passing servant and handing one to her. It was wine punch with sparkling water, and she sipped at it gratefully; despite careful design and those twenty-foot glass doors, the room was a little warm. She watched Sita and Henri talking while the music began, the girl laughing up into his face.
Then he bowed, in a smooth but foreign fashion—right arm folded across his body, left out. Sita curtsied in turn; unlike most women here tonight, she was wearing a sari, one shimmering in rose silk and picked out at the edges in diamonds. Despite the confining skirts of the wraparound garment, she followed him easily out onto the floor, with one hand on the back of his, then launched into the waltz with a swirling, swooping grace. Henri was in French costume tonight, narrow trousers and black tailcoat jacket with golden epaulets. He moved with a swordsman’s grace . . .
And more practice in this dance than any of us, Cassandra thought, as a murmur of applause spread through the watchers, and then more and more couples moved out onto the pale marble of the floor. Soon it was a fantasy of color, swirling silken fabric and plumes, flashing feet in jewel-crusted sandals, bright uniforms . . .
“Ah . . . Charles, I know it’s none of my business . . .”
“Well, don’t let that stop you,” the prince said. “It hasn’t so far, hey?”
Cassandra gave a small incredulous snort of laughter, glancing aside at him; there was a definite twinkle in his eye, not something you saw every day—the kunwar of the Raj was something of a sobersides.
“Perhaps outside—” she said.
They turned their backs on the dance and slipped out on the terrace. It was broad and quiet, lit by crescents flickering on tall pillars. The surface was Rajasthani marble, a pure creamy white divided into squares by narrow strips of lapis lazuli and inlaid with interlinking patterns of tulip, lily, iris, poppy, and narcissus; pietra dura work of red carnelian, turquoise, and malachite. The expanse was spotted with high-backed, carved-stone benches curved for easier conversation and padded with snowy linen from the South Island of New Zealand. A few folk were about; couples taking a break from the dancing for flirtation or a snatched kiss, the odd individual taking a smoke. Cassandra and her escort walked over to lean on the balustrade that circled the terrace, looking down on the ornamental pool that surrounded it a dozen feet below.
Beyond was an avenue of fountains flanked by sculpted elephants, jets of water surging and crossing in an intricate repeating pattern; beyond that were the domes and towers and gardens of the Palace of the Lion Throne, dim-lit and mysterious under the frosted stars.
“Hmmm . . .” Cassandra said. “How shall I put it—wasn’t Henri’s job supposed to be getting Sita to like the thought of marrying his prince? Rather than himself, that is.”
“Eh?” Charles seemed to start a bit. “Sorry . . . yes, of course. Although the marriage can wait a few years, if needs be, no harm in an engagement of some length. Henri is just getting her to like the idea of living in France-outre-mer. Quite a charming chap when he sets his mind to it, isn’t he?”
“He could charm a snake out of its skin,” Cassandra said forthrightly. “And he knows just the way to go about it with your sister, too. Not throwing her out of the carriage the other night when we went to call on Allenby, for example. That made him a hero to her for good and all. Is his Emperor—and this prince of theirs—insane?”
“I understand he and the prince are extremely close—playmates since childhood—virtually brothers.”
“Still . . . Charles, I’ve become very fond of Sita. I’d hate to see her with a broken heart; and as I believe I told you, that girl is going to fall seriously in love with somebody, and soon. I don’t doubt Arthur was close to Lancelot, too—and at least he didn’t send du Lac to court Guinevere for him.”
Charles produced a cigarette case and offered her one. She shook her head, although she’d once been fond of a quiet evening hookah herself. Some of the Medical Department statistical programs run on the Analytical Engine at Oxford had been coming up with disturbing correlates between tobacco and a galaxy of very nasty diseases, and she’d thrown out her hubble-bubble and sworn off tobacco after reading them.
&
nbsp; Instead she watched his face in the dim light as the smoke curled up around his narrow features. She had to admit that cigarettes did make an extremely effective aid to conversation.
“I’m glad that you care, Cass,” Charles said. “Sita needed a friend—a levelheaded friend—someone a little older and steadier to look up to. Most of the girls her age around court make her look like a rock of stolidity.”
“So, I’m to supply stolidity as well as the sciences?” she said.
“I don’t, ah, find you stolid,” he said, turning away slightly as if to watch the view.
Not even the kunwar is immune to our national disease, she thought. Although he couldn’t be used to suspense, when it came to women.
“Charles.” She laid a hand on his arm, wincing slightly at the look in his eyes. “I like you very much, Charles. And I’m fully aware of how the court biddies have been clucking over how many times you asked your sister’s tutor to dance.”
“Not every dance,” he said defensively.
“No; just as many as you could get away with, after dutifully dancing with your sister and your aunt—Charles, I do like you. I enjoy your company and your conversation; I even like simply being with you. I think you’re a very attractive man. But I am not going to let my emotions run away with me. I have absolutely no interest in the position of an Imperial mistress. My career has far too much of my heart, and I worked too hard and long on it.”
The prince flushed enough to be visible even in the darkness. “I—ah—”
“And please, you know that your father would absolutely never under any circumstances permit an offer of marriage to an untitled nobody from the provinces—and a Queen-Empress astronomer living in rooms at Oxford? One of the things I like about you is your realism. Please.”
He gave a long sigh and flicked the end of the cigarette into the night, like a miniature comet with a trail of sparks. “You do have to stay at court until this business is wrapped up, don’t you?” he said hopefully.
The Peshawar Lancers Page 34